


For the Children

by Veringue



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veringue/pseuds/Veringue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'You should go,' Robert had said, his hand lingering on her head, then her shoulder, as if he could somehow turn her back into the little girl, the carefree child he had so quickly lost. 'You should choose,' he had said." - Three peeks into the years post-season three, coping with loss and love and children. [Written January-July 2013, after the S3 CS aired.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Children

**Author's Note:**

> [This was written, in three parts, throughout January-July 2013, after the S3 Christmas Special drove all over - no pun intended - my heart. I first posted it elsewhere, but am now posting it here since I joined AO3. These author's notes are from my younger self to you. Thanks for reading!]
> 
> Dearest readers,
> 
> Because I haven't had much time to write longer pieces lately, I generally write shorter drabbles/one-shots which I post to my Tumblr (missjordanbakers under the tag 'my fanfiction').
> 
> These three little pieces were also published separately on my blog. I hadn't planned for there to be three of them. I had no intention of even giving them a title or publishing them as a set. But they seemed to go very well together and the third one (which is one of my personal favourites) seemed to be the perfect ending.
> 
> Anyway, I'll let you read! Thanks for stopping by and I hope you like it!

_September, 1922_

“You should go,” Robert had said, his hand lingering on her head, then her shoulder, as if he could somehow turn her back into the little girl, the carefree child he had so quickly lost. “You should choose,” he had said. 

He had grown older in a year, her father. There was an heir, an heir who was safe and healthy and whose mother never let him out of her sight, his mother who had hair the colour of ashes, who was tireless, who fought and loved and mourned day after day. She had long fingers that fluttered around the hope lost and the wish fulfilled, that adjusted the cloths, warmed the waters, and rocked the heir slowly in black wings. A raven at the peak of this cursed house, she surveyed its surroundings, directed the wind, held him close. Yet another death, and her father had grown older, and there was only so much that she could do.

“Tom will drive you,” he had said. Mary had nodded and Carson had draped her coat around her shoulders. She had walked out on the lawn, stepped straight on the first leaf of the year. It had crumbled beneath her foot. The child had murmured something, tiny hands clutching his toy, and had pointed somewhere.

Mary always looked when he pointed, always saw something she had not seen before, a star of a different galaxy, a bird in strange colours. This time it was a cloud, thin, threaded, a floating spider web. “Very pretty.” She had kissed the head of the child, so soft, so unbearably soft. “Very pretty, my darling.” 

Tom had been there with the car. He had driven slowly, had taken them through a land of broken men, a land falling and rising, only to fall and rise again. She had sat in the back seat with two children, two children so alive it was hard to believe that in their first moments they could not have been closer to death.

They should have taken someone with them – two widowed humans and two vibrant children – but no, only Tom could come. This, all of this, had a feel of duty about it that only Tom knew. The duty never left them. It was always the duty that prodded them in the back and kept them parading on. The duty had always been there, just like the sorrow had. None of it was new, none of what she felt was new, but what she had lost most certainly was.

They had driven a long time and had returned – two widowed humans and two sleeping children – when the sky was dark purple and full of twinkling stars as far as the eye could see.

The golden puppy was exactly twelve months old, partly tamed, partly untameable, and in spite of their best efforts the children woke again when the dog threw itself onto the gravel and dashed into the house. For half an hour the puppy was but a flash of lightning and a storm of curls as it flew through all the halls and made a mess of all the rooms. The weather followed suit. The dog yapped, threw a fit, made the servants laugh, tore up a couch and finally settled in front of the fire.

It was unwelcome and yet it was necessary.

She waited, she cradled, and all the while she could see him, as clearly as if he had never left, could feel his arms encircle her shoulders, could hear the way his voice rose and fell like the land beneath them, and knew exactly what he would say: “This is good. This is what you need.”

The children were thrilled, the adults were shocked, and finally both Granny and Papa found the voice to howl at the moon in unison – together with the puppy of course. There was no doubt about it. This was their saviour, and the pain was almost as unbearable as her son’s head was soft. _But the pain is good,_ she thought. _This is good_. For it is only the pain that teaches us where to put our naked feet and naked hands, that teaches us where we can stand, and where we can build, and how we can move on with our lives. There is no doubt about it. She calls him Perseus. 

* * *

_June, 1924_  

“No!” she shouted at him. She could not recall the last time she had shouted like this. She could not recall having found her voice. “No,” she repeated, more softly. “Not now, not anytime soon.”

They stood in the grand hall, the two of them swaying, trying to balance, but helpless to gravity. Tom watched her, his expression soft, not pitying, but gentle.

Mary inhaled. “My husband died in a car accident,” she said. “And I will not have the same happen to my son. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lady.”

It was cold in the house, but warm – almost. Heat created by anger that crackled through the halls. The title, my lady, hit them both at the same time. Tom thought of Matthew, the day before the wedding; Mary thought of Sybil, the days before her marriage. And Mary knew when the last time was that she had shouted like this.

She looked over her shoulder and saw by the staircase two little heads peering around the corner, looking at them, eyes wide as saucers. She turned back to Tom and stepped forward, grasped his arm, his sleeve, squeezed briefly. Mary knew when the last time was that she had done that.

“For the children,” she whispered. 

The day was a soothing one. The argument passed, the idea passed, and life wore on. In the nursery, Mary fell asleep with a book, rocking in a chair, strips of sunlight dancing over her legs, back and forth.

She dreamt of automobiles, of strange figures in the sky, of being punished for earlier crimes, of falling short and falling down. When she woke, Georgie was nowhere to be seen and the evening was filtering in, on her stockings, on the floors, on the blossoming wallpaper. It was outside, through the windows veiled by thin summer curtains, that she saw him.

The light may have lapsed into orange, but the child was so golden that she felt faint. Tom was beside him. He lifted him onto the bicycle and pushed him along, and Sybil ran after her father, the dog Percy yapping at her dress.

When Mary reached the front door, she had to take a moment. She had to look like she had not just run through the house, like the tears had not just burned as the fires burned in Georgie’s hair, as the sun burned fiercely, as the day burned out. She pulled open the doors.

“Mary!” Tom called.

She approached, heels sinking into the gravel, and joined them on the lawn. George laughed, clung to his bike, tried to get on, fell, stood proudly, and repeated this several times until his mother pulled him to her and pushed back his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Tom said, his eyes on the sun.

“Don’t be,” Mary said.

“It was foolish. I’m sorry.” He looked at her, but she was watching Sybbie, or perhaps the sun, or perhaps something else entirely. He could not tell. She was the opposite of the sister he had known. There were no parts of her missing, but she was broken in the oddest places. 

“Is this all right?” he asked her. Georgie slipped out of Mary’s grasp to ring the bell on his bicycle.

“Yes,” Mary said. “Yes, this is all right.”

Perhaps she was always watching sorrow, Lady Mary Crawley. Perhaps, Tom thought, she was always on the brink of it, waiting for it, dreading it. But that did not mean that black did not suit her, or that all promises had fled to other lands. No, it did not mean that they could not live. It did not mean that they could not prevail. 

* * *

_March, 1925_

It was that time of year when wind and sun fought for the weather, battering man between heaven and earth, chasing each other across the lands. Mary held Sybbie’s hand tightly, for fear she might blow away. Ahead of them the dog Percy bounded after invisible prey, and often Mary raised her voice over the wind to call him back. They walked the gravel path along the forest, Isobel on Sybbie’s other side, a woman so solid in her conviction that the weather posed no threat to them. And yet the wind gushed and tore mercilessly, until the trees were forced to dance. 

So suddenly did Mary sweep little Sybbie up in her arms, inspired by the wind, that the girl stared at her wide-eyed and both women laughed. Mary kissed her nose and pulled her close, pointing out where they were headed, pointing out the pond, the nursery room window, and the gardener, who waved when he saw them. Sybbie waved back.

Isobel raised her eyes to the sky. “It is a Matthew sort of day,” she said.

Mary smiled. The sky was stained with clouds, as if woven by a deity. The leaves, clinging to the trees, were fresh in red and green. The fields, wet with morning dew, glistened in the shadow light. 

“It is,” she agreed. 

Matthew had been a man as pure and crisp as this March day, with a face soft and sensitive, with a temper for devotion, with a clear view of the world at war with itself. They could speak of him now with more fondness than grief – at last.

When they reached the cobbles of the estate buildings Percy bolted ahead, a blur of yellow. Sybbie squirmed and leapt, lean as a cat, onto the ground, landing on all fours before she ran off, racing the dog. Dog and girl both were a nobleman’s disaster. Percy barked, Sybbie squealed “Daddy!” and “Georgie!” and Mary froze by Isobel’s side. 

Tom came out of the garage and took the girl in his arms. The days fell back for Mary, to wartime, to the suspicion of a love affair, to so much done for the lives of others, to so much sacrifice – a sister lost in the fray. Then again, innocence had a way of coming back to life. She watched the revolutionary and his daughter. Beside them, there was a little bicycle propped against the wall.

Tom looked up. But Mary’s long strides had already brought her to him.

She saw it then, the car. 

She could almost hear the London life outside. She could hear Matthew speaking, bright and enthusiastic, talking in gestures. She could feel his arms wrap around her waist. A boy, he had been such a boy then. He had lifted her into the car before she could object, his neck bared, his skin still ripe from her kisses. The shopkeeper had laughed, propriety forgotten. She knew she had married a boy then; she knew she was still young.

Little George appeared out of the darkness, looking like a plumber of sorts, oil slick on his fair skin. Growth had revealed his brown eyes to be secretly blue, his face like a teardrop, his features inextricably his and hers. Mary stooped to brush back his hair, to kiss his head. She stood up again. He reached one greasy hand out to Percy. “George...” Mary warned. He retracted his hand and looked at her innocently – he was very good at that.

The car was olive and ochre, the colors of a summer land. Its expression was scorched, firm, fierce. Its headlights gleamed and eyed her defiantly. But if there was one who knew of defiance, it was herself.

“I love it,” Matthew had said. “It’s perfect. Isn’t it perfect, darling? Look at it, look at the leather, the wheels, the windshield, the curve of the metal. It’s liquid almost, isn’t it? So sleek, so streamlined. It’s perfect. Darling, it’s gorgeous. Oh, and it would look more gorgeous still with you in the front seat.” And he had pulled her aside for a honeymoon kiss.

The headlights gleamed at her now and she stepped forward to touch its frame, steel, silver-colored. She touched it in fear, in awe. She felt Isobel’s eyes on her back, and Tom’s, and George by her side knowing, even at this young age, that his mother was serious now. 

The car was olive and ochre, matted, brushed by loving hands, the olive of the southern lands, the ochre of a simmering beach – all for them. The leather was white, foam lapping at their feet; the sea was blue, reaching for the horizon. Oh, the happiness, and the tragedy. As such was each child born, as such had each adult loved, as such was her life now.

“Mary,” Tom began, but she cut him short by opening the door with a sharp tug. “Mary,” he began again, and Sybbie let go of him to clutch at Mary’s legs as she always did when her aunt was serious. George watched – like his mother, he was a watcher. 

Mary rested her hand on the seat, her glove of dainty black lace, the seat a soft, yellow shade of white, the crème of a Parisian éclair. The leather had been changed; it had been brown before. Isobel’s eyes were still on her and Mary felt the defiance, felt it, and defied it by definition. She had the right.

“It was in pieces, completely broken,” Tom ventured, standing by her side now. “They brought it round, the men from the village, and your father didn’t know what to do with it. I said I’d fix it up, maybe sell it, I don’t know. I wouldn’t drive it ever, oh no, but I felt it was my duty. She’s such a beautiful car – a beast.” He paused. “You should hear her growl, Mary.”

Mary traced the seams of the seat. _A beast._

“And George, he loves her. I couldn’t keep him away from her. I didn’t tell him, of course I didn’t. But I couldn’t help it.” He sought her face for any sign of understanding, of forgiveness. She looked at him. “He reminds me of myself,” he said timidly.

Mary shifted her gaze from Tom to Isobel, who stood alone, grey hair tousled by the wind, features chipped from stone. They were wolves, the two of them, women much alike in disposition, believing that sentiments could not be repressed, only strengthened and overcome. The pain was there, electric, and Mary’s knuckles were white under the black of her glove.

“I will drive it,” Mary said. 

Tom’s breath caught in his throat. He thought of the time when his young love had stood here, much in the same way, and yet fundamentally dissimilar. And now this woman, his sister, stood unshaken, leaning against the frame of the car, and he adored her – for her strength, for her friendship. “She’s far from finished,” he stammered. “I’m fitting her with the latest bits and pieces. It’ll be months at least, checking, testing, before she’ll be ready.”

“I will wait,” Mary said. She closed the door, rubbed George’s cheek, carefully disentangled herself from Sybbie and walked around to the driver’s side. Again, with a sharp tug, she opened the door, got in and sat down. She placed her slim foot on the heavy pedal, her black hands on the black wheel. _So this is where he sat when he died,_ she thought, _this is where he spilt his blood, thinking of his family._

“You will teach me how to drive,” she said, flexing her fingers. The words lay between a request and a demand, but leaned towards the former. She looked at Tom. In her expression lay her gratitude. Her fight was not with him.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course,” he repeated. Mary nodded. She knew him.

She looked at George then, the boy collecting grains of sand in front of the car, stopping to pick the dirt from under his tiny nails. Mary should have known that Tom would be raising little revolutionaries. She would have to be on her guard, she thought. And she smiled. She had such an enchanting smile, so utterly bewitching.

“It is beautiful, my prince,” Mary said and George looked up. “She is very, very beautiful.” She paused. Then she changed her tone: “But don’t you let me see you in this state again, young man, or I will not have you anywhere near her. Now go wash up.” But her smile seeped into her sternness and Georgie grinned.

“Sybil,” Mary ordered, regaining her authority. Sybbie nodded, dropped all her grains of sand, stamped her foot and chastised George heartily. She cornered him by the sink, where she began to scrub him methodically. The girl had grown so big lately, her face Tom’s, her hair Sybil’s, her temperament an all-round fiery one. George was of a softer nature, but if Sybbie slapped him, George would slap her back, and they would wrestle, then embrace, until Sybbie would drag him by his hand, up the stairs, to bed. The children were like their parents; they fought and loved in equal measure. Percy tagged along to help. Isobel kept an eye on them.

Mary slid her fingers along the window of the car, along the dashboard, down to the shift stick. It was all so new, so unfeeling – and yet, a murderous thing. “What is her name?”

Tom swallowed, stepped forward, placed his hands on the bonnet, protectively almost. “Miriam,” he said.

Mary brought her hands back to the steering wheel and flexed her wrists, her fingers. She set her jaw. Mary and Miriam. So be it. She would tame her; she would tame herself.

“Our children will sit on our laps, playing cards, laughing, crying, chaos everywhere,” he had whispered against her lips. “Can you see them, darling?” he had asked her. “And you and I, we would scold them good-naturedly, then take them in our arms, all three of them, all five of them, all _seven_ of them.” She had gasped, chuckled, kissed him for his foolish fancy. “And you and I,” he had persisted, “we would have a grandiose picnic, food spilling out of the trunk of the car. We would lie in the grass with glasses of Pinot noir – that good one, from the hotel, you remember? – with the scent of bliss in the air.”

“Have you gone full poet on me, Matthew?” she had demanded of him. 

He had looked fit to burst with excitement. “Mary, it’s such a beautiful, beautiful car. And you, with your hair down, your glasses up, so beautiful next to it, with our children, and our future – oh Mary, I love you, my darling!” 

“God, Matthew,” she had breathed, unable to control her laughter, “just buy the damn thing already!” 

Even now, she could recall his kisses. It was as though he were here with her, his arm draped over the back of her chair, his blond head soft on her shoulder. There was a splash from behind and George shrieked, Percy yapped, Sybbie called for order. “Hey!” Tom bellowed. Silence fell. Percy’s paws scraped the ground, the two youngsters whispered. Tom tossed them a towel, they giggled. _Our children,_ she thought. She tore off her black gloves, she gripped the steering wheel, her skin red and white with determination. 

She had a duty to fulfill. In the white light of a March morning, on the cream seat of a savage car, she sat in black. Her veins were blue, her hands ice-cold, and her children soaked to the bone. The wind howled like a lost soul, the heat sizzled on the stones. She no longer lay where he lay.

Mary raised her eyes to meet Isobel’s. “It is a Matthew sort of day,” she said.

“It certainly is,” Isobel agreed. And Tom was there to dry her tears.


End file.
